In The Stars (Main Street Merchants Book 6)

by Amelia C. Adams

  She glanced up and then immediately away again. She was grateful that Rusty had given her a task to do for a minute so she wouldn’t have to watch him—he was stuffing the intestines back inside Flossie. At least they hadn’t hit the barn floor—she had no idea how he’d get them clean if they got dirt and straw all over them. She’d rather not think about it.

  “And now we’ll sew her back up,” he announced a moment later. The calf began to buck, almost in response, and Rusty laughed.

  “He’ll be just fine. Now we need to worry about Mom. Alana, do you want to help me stitch up this cow?”

  She’d get to help with sutures? “Sure,” she said, casting a quick grin over at her dad. She knew he’d appreciate how much this meant to her. She followed Rusty’s directions and threaded the needle after changing her gloves and making sure she was as clean as possible.

  “Okay, this is how you suture. We’re not going to be all fancy and gorgeous this time. Our job is to put the cow back together as fast as possible.” His hands were already moving as he spoke. “I’d like you to bring the two sides of her uterus together and hold them in place for me.”

  Alana did as he asked, coming in close and holding the membranes. The intestines were still visible in the body cavity, and she decided she just wouldn’t look there.

  Rusty did a quick row of sutures to hold the membranes in place, and then he began the task of closing her muscle tissue. Then came the last task of repairing her flesh. Alana watched everything he did, trying to commit it all to memory. The needle was curved, which allowed him to pick up a piece of skin from one side and then the other in one fluid motion.

  “Are you sure she can’t feel anything?” Alana asked. She didn’t mean to question him, but she couldn’t stand the thought of any living creature being in pain.

  “She can feel a tug on her skin, but I don’t think she can feel the incision or the needle,” Rusty replied. “She’s pretty numb—that’s why she’s not kicking me. Now, after the shots wear off? That’ll be a whole different story. Keep the baby close by so she has something to concentrate on. She needs to remember that this is all for a good cause.”

  Alana glanced over at the baby. He had nuzzled up under Flossie’s neck, and she was licking the top of his head. It was so sweet.

  “Alana, can you thread another needle? I’m almost out of suture material.”

  “Sure.” She moved as quickly as she could in rubber gloves.

  “Great. Thanks.” Rusty kept stitching until he reached the end of the incision, and then he rocked back on his heels. “Now, we wait. I’ll give her antibiotics and let her body’s natural healing mechanisms kick in.” He paused, a look of surprise crossing his face. “Oh, but you know what? It looks like she needs one more stitch here. Alana, would you like to try?”

  Her brain completely froze. “Um, what?”

  Rusty smiled. “Would you like to try a stitch? See, right here.” He pointed to a spot at the very end of his neat row.

  Alana looked and shook her head. “She’s completely closed. This is a mercy stitch.”

  “How many opportunities like this are you going to get outside of medical school?”

  Alana glanced at him. His eyes were filled with amusement. “Okay, I’ll do it. But only because all the crucial stitches have already been made, and this one doesn’t really matter.”

  Rusty handed her the needle, and she crouched down so she could see the lower part of the incision more clearly.

  She knew from the other disgusting things she’d had to do in her life that the longer she hesitated, the harder it would be. So she didn’t hesitate at all. She inserted the needle into Flossie’s skin, angled the needle up, caught the skin on the other side, and pulled the suture material through. It reminded her of quilting denim blankets with her grandmother. She pulled the stitch tight, but not too tight, then turned to Rusty. “How was that?”

  He blinked. “Perfect,” he said. “You were really watching me.”

  “It’s the best way to learn, right?” She tried to sound casual, but she was about ready to burst with pride. She couldn’t believe she’d actually done that.

  “You bet.” Rusty took the needle back and demonstrated how to end the line of stitches and snip off the tail of thread. Alana glanced at Bud, who watching with a huge grin on his face. She knew her dad would be bragging about this for days.

  Rusty went over to the sink and washed up again, then returned and dug around in his bag. “Here’s an antibiotic spray for that incision. Use this about every four hours. I’m not sure exactly how long those numbing shots will last—it’s different for every animal, but keep an eye on her. Over the next few days, be especially careful to watch for signs of infection—redness around the incision site, any weeping, that kind of thing. And I’ll be back out tomorrow to check on her.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Michaels. We really appreciate it,” Bud said.

  “It’s just Rusty. No one ever calls me Dr. Michaels.”

  Alana wondered how she’d instinctively known that about him.

  She helped Rusty gather up his supplies. He tossed all his implements into a thick plastic bag, saying that he’d take them back to the office and disinfect them there. Then she walked with him as he carried his supplies out to his truck. He didn’t need help, but she knew that once he left, this amazing experience would end, and she wanted to prolong it as long as possible. He piled everything into the back, his weariness showing in the way he held his shoulders.

  “Thanks for your help, Alana. You were a great assistant.” Rusty leaned against the side of the truck. “In fact, I wonder if you’d like to come with me on some of my other cases. Maybe you’d learn something, and I know I’d learn things from you. I couldn’t pay you, and I’d have to be careful about what I asked you to do because you’re not medically trained, but it might be fun. What do you think?”

  Alana almost couldn’t breathe for a minute. “You want me to be your apprentice? Really?”

  Rusty grinned. “I can’t tell if you’re excited or mortified.”

  “Oh, I’m definitely excited. I’d love to.” Helping with that C-section had been gross and frightening, and easily the coolest thing Alana had ever done. She couldn’t wait to have another experience like that. “But why did you let me put that stitch in Flossie when I’m not trained?”

  “She’s your cow.” He winked. “Totally different when it’s your own animal. I’m glad you’ll help me out. I’ll give you a call.” He opened the door to climb in, and Alana caught a glimpse of a half-eaten hamburger still in its wrapper on the seat. He hadn’t been able to finish his dinner before he got to their place—he must be starving by now.

  “Rusty? Um, my mom always makes amazing breakfasts when we’ve been out all night on the ranch. Would you like to join us?” She tipped her head toward the house.

  Rusty hesitated for a second, his hand on the steering wheel. “You know what, that sounds great.” He closed the door and followed her inside.

  Chapter Two

  Alana stood up and poured herself another cup of tea. Rusty had eaten at least six pancakes that morning while he laughed and joked with her family. He fit right in as though he was part of the Spencer clan. She smiled, thinking about how he’d tussled with Rory over the last piece of bacon.

  The bell over the door jingled, reminding her where she was, and she turned to greet her customer. “Good morning. How can I help you?” Then she paused. The man who had come in was very good-looking—jaw-droppingly good-looking. Dark hair, blue eyes, cleft in the chin. And he was furious. Anger poured off him in waves she could sense even though he was still several feet away from her.

  “Are you Alana Spencer?” he asked as he stormed up to the counter.

  “I am. Would you like some tea? I was just refilling my mug, and I have plenty.” She kept her voice mellow, hoping to pull some of his anger out of him.

  “No. But I do want to talk to you.” He rested his fisted hands on the counter
top. “Did you sell some herbs to Melinda Reynolds a few weeks ago?”

  Alana deliberately slowed her movements, taking a sip of her tea before answering. She refused to let him disturb the entire atmosphere of her shop. “I did.”

  “And did you tell her that those herbs would cure her cancer?”

  Alana raised an eyebrow. “No, I did not.”

  “Then why is it that she came into my office with this bag full of . . . of crap . . . and told me she was feeling much better and that you told her to take it?”

  Alana pulled out her cookie tin, took off the lid, and began to arrange macaroons on a plate. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I caught your name.”

  The man tapped the side of his fist on the counter. It wasn’t quite a pound or a slap, but it wasn’t polite. “I’m Dr. Adam Harris. I’m here from the Cancer Treatment Center of Denver. Melinda Reynolds has been my patient for the last six months.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Dr. Harris. Please, come take a seat and have a cookie.”

  “I don’t want a cookie! I want some answers.”

  “And you shall get those answers. Over here. Sitting down.” Alana led him to the comfy chairs, her cup in one hand and the plate in the other. She placed the dishes on the table, sat, and tucked her feet beneath her. Dr. Harris sat on the edge of his chair, coiled tightly like a caged animal. Or perhaps like a snake about to strike. She wasn’t sure which.

  “Ms. Spencer, I don’t have time for tea and cookies and sitting down to chat in a cozy corner. I’m here to discuss this with you. I’ve attended medical school, specialized in oncology, interned, studied, and devoted my life to making people well. I know what I’m talking about. When one of my patients comes to me and says that she got some random weedy stuff from a lady down the street and has been taking it, it makes me angry.”

  Ah, one of these conversations. She was well familiar with them. “I can appreciate that,” Alana said. “You’ve spent a long time and put in a lot of hard work to get where you are now.”

  “That’s right. I have.”

  “I can see how all this would make you very upset.”

  Dr. Harris leaned back a little in his chair and studied her. “Yes, it does. Now, at what point are you and I going to have a real conversation? All you’re doing is repeating everything I’ve said.”

  She pursed her lips slightly and nodded. “A real conversation would be nice. My question is, are you willing to have a real conversation with me?”

  Dr. Harris blinked. “What do you mean?”

  It was time for the gloves to come off. “Doctor, you came in here ready to pick a fight. You aren’t looking for a conversation—you’re looking to vent your anger and avenge your wounded pride. You’ve vented. As far as the avenging part goes, I think that requires me to cower in fear or shame or something, and that I will not do. So, would you like to discuss this like two reasonable adults, or shall I show you the door and invite you to get off my property?”

  “Wow. You’re not the cuddly little kitten you look like, are you?”

  Alana smiled tightly, feeling her ire begin to build. “Oh, Dr. Harris, you did not just call me a kitten.”

  He held up both hands. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “I think you very much meant to offend me. I think you came in here with the total intent of offending me and intimidating me. Since we’ve established that’s never going to happen, we’re done now.” She moved to stand, but he half rose as well, holding his hands toward her.

  “Please, Ms. Spencer, sit back down and let’s talk. I’m sorry. You’re right—I’ve been very rude.”

  That was an almost decent apology. She sat and lifted an eyebrow.

  “I’m just frustrated. I’m concerned about my patient.”

  “I’m concerned about Melinda too. She and I have been friends since I first came to Aspen Ridge.”

  “So you know that I only want the best for her, right?” His tone was now a little cajoling. Would he never stop?

  “Of course. That’s the same thing I want.”

  “Then we’re on the same team. We just want her to get well. And I think we can both agree that these herbs will interfere with her medical treatment.” He sat back as though everything had been decided.

  “You’re absolutely right. If you take herbs and drugs at the same time, they can cancel each other out. That’s why I tell my customers not to take them at the same time, but to space them.” Alana took another sip of her tea. It was cooling rapidly, and she didn’t like it at room temperature. Still, it gave her something to do, and allowed her to put a barrier between herself and the doctor, even if it was something as breakable as a mug.

  “Are you deliberately misunderstanding me? I’m not talking about spacing them. I’m talking about not taking the herbs at all.”

  “Oh, I understand you. I understand you just fine. What you don’t understand is that I’ve done nothing wrong. Everyone knows oranges have vitamin C, right?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t quite follow you.”

  “Well, do they or don’t they have vitamin C?”

  “They do.”

  “And everyone knows that if you’re sick, you need vitamin C. So we drink orange juice when we have a cold. It’s simply what we do.”

  He nodded. “And we eat chicken soup.”

  “Exactly. If I’d given Melinda chicken soup, would you be in here now with this attitude?”

  Now he looked completely lost. It was an improvement. “Well, no.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because chicken soup is harmless. It’s just food.”

  Alana sat back in triumph. “Herbs are food. They are edible, they sustain life, and they provide nutrients—that makes them food. Countless studies have been done to show their benefits. Can you tell me about any current studies that have been conducted to prove the benefits of chicken soup, Doctor?”

  “No, I can’t. But about FDA sanction . . .”

  “Are oranges regulated by the FDA? If I go down to the grocery store and buy five dozen oranges, is anyone going to stop me? They’d probably ask me if I was going to make orange juice and then follow that up with asking me if I have a cold because everyone knows that oranges are good for colds.”

  “You’re talking in circles, Ms. Spencer.” He crossed his arms across his chest.

  “Why? Because I started out by talking about oranges, and now I’m talking about oranges again? True, but everything I’ve said makes sense. Certain foods are good for certain things. Certain foods are bad for certain things. I don’t need a medical degree to tell me to lay off eating a gallon of ice cream a day if I want to lose weight—that’s common sense. Food affects our bodies. Herbs are food. It’s as simple as that.”

  “But you can’t go around making promises that herbs are going to cure people!”

  “I’m not.”

  Dr. Harris stopped short. “What? You’re going to sit there and lecture me for who knows how long about oranges and then tell me that you’re not peddling cures?”

  “Talking about the health benefits of oranges is hardly illegal. And I never promise my customers anything. I’m aware of the law, Dr. Harris. I know what I can and can’t say. I also have a very strict personal code, and I would never get someone’s hopes up like that. I don’t sell dreams. I don’t even sell dream interpretations—those are free.” She allowed herself to smile at her own joke.

  “So what do you call what happened with Melinda? She thinks she’s found a cure, and that the cancer is just going to disappear now.”

  Alana pulled a small piece of fuzz off her sweater and flicked it into her now-empty mug. “I didn’t tell her that. And knowing Melinda the way I do, I doubt that’s what she actually said.”

  Dr. Harris looked a little comfortable. “All right, those weren’t her exact words.”

  “What were her exact words, might I ask?”

  “She said she was feeling better since she started drink
ing the tea.”

  “And did she say how she felt better?”

  “She doesn’t feel as sick to her stomach.”

  Alana smiled again. “Dr. Harris, do you know what’s in the tea I sold Melinda?”

  “Well, no. Just that it’s herbs and stuff.”

  “Yes, it is herbs and stuff. Mint and ginger, both of which are highly effective in combating nausea. Her cancer treatments have been making her nauseated, Dr. Harris, and that’s what we were discussing, not the cancer. And you’ll be interested to know that neither mint nor ginger are contraindicated in the treatment of cancer.”

  “I . . .” Dr. Harris seemed at a loss for words. Alana liked him better that way.

  “It may also interest you to know that studies are currently being done on mice that show mint’s effectiveness on radiation-induced testicular cancer. They’ll soon be testing that out on humans. Ginger has also been proven to be an effective anti-cancer agent, particularly for colon cancer. And I mentioned none of this to Melinda.”

  “Where did you get that information?” Dr. Harris asked.

  “The Memorial Sloane Kettering Cancer Center website, which, by the way, includes a rather comprehensive disclaimer that you have to accept before you can even read the information they’ve posted. I’ve covered all my bases, Dr. Harris. I gave Melinda something to help her nausea, I made sure it would not aggravate her cancer in any way—by happy coincidence, I have scientific studies to back me up—and I made her no promises. I told her it might help her stomach to settle. That was all I said. If she’s feeling remarkably better, that’s fantastic, don’t you think?”

  “You didn’t give her those herbs with the intention of trying to cure her cancer?”

  Alana took a quick calming breath. “Dr. Harris, I don’t cure anything. For that matter, neither do you. The body cures itself because it naturally wants to be healthy, and when we give it what it needs, it will repair itself. You remove the destructive organisms. I like to nourish and build up the existing healthy organisms. You said at the beginning of this little chat that we were on the same page. Isn’t that more true than you first thought?”